Clickclickclickbrrrz, brrrz, brrrz...
     The sound of an international call is always a little jarring, different from any other sound, different from any nation-wide calling plan's chimes and jingles and bells. Gillian sits just inside the doors of the airport while Pres tends to the procuring of a suitable rental car, sitting on one of a bank of not very comfortable plastic chairs with one foot on her travel bag.
     "Let's see, it should be about ... dinner time there," Gillian absently murmurs to herself, "so she should be ... either eating dinner at home or out, of course, or she might be heading to study group, or ..."
     It's hard to say, really. Part of the problem is that she's always been so busy herself, it makes it even harder to guess at someone else's schedule. She examines her fingernails with a small frown as she waits for a pickup on the other end.

     It was three rings and then there is a breathy, or rather out-of-breath answer. "Yes? Hello?" she says in her musical accent. She doesn't know who it is -- who can afford call waiting? You do not hear television or radio or any ambient noise. She must be at home!
     She is indeed. Parvati stands in the middle of what used to be your flat in Oxford. You've been gone for a couple of days, if that. You've been missed but she wouldn't have seen you except in passing anyway.
     Parvati catches her breath, having run from one side of the flat (her room) to the living room, jumping over a pile of molecular biology books in the process, like an Olympian hurdler.

     "Par! It's Gillian." Gillian beams even though you aren't there to see it. "I'm so glad I caught you in! Listen, are you busy? Where are you, are you home? What's your schedule like this week?"
     She puts a foot up on her bag, the other foot on top of that foot. "I reeeeally want to see you, if you have time. I mean, I know you're busy, who isn't? But..."

     "Gillian! Where are you? And of course you will see me, you live here." She pauses. "Don't you?" she teases. "And," she sighs as she flops onto the sofa. "I am home. I just was putting the finishing bits on a paper. The start of this term is killing me. Already, I have more projects than I have time. But after this paper, I have a good week before I have to worry. Of course, I'm working ahead. Why?"
     You hear her wander to the kitchen, her bare feet slapping against the wood floor. She opens the fridge. "So where are you? Do you want to go to Pashmina's for dinner?"

     "At the moment, I'm at the Boston airport, waiting for my brother to get a rental car. Visiting my parents for dinner. Which kind of puts a crimp in meeting you for dinner, and trust me anyway, this is going to be one of those awkward family dinners like you would not believe." Gillian relaxes back against the back of the plastic seat, ignoring its squeak. "Buuut, I was wondering if you'd like to come spend some time with me. I have so much to tell you, and mm, you remember when we talked about Bran and where he's from? I was wondering if you want to go there with me."

     "Boston? When did you leave? You are going to have to start leaving notes now and then," she teases you. Parvati crunches on a carrot as she walks back to the living room, plopping back down on the sofa with a squeak and a crunch. And then she sits forward. "Really?" Her voice almost trembles with excitement. "Yes! I would love to see it! How can we meet? I can't ask my parents for the money to Boston. They will wonder why I am not studying. And then, if I have so much time not studying, why can't I help in the shop and find a nice Indian man to marry..." Crunch-crunch-crunch. Same old song!
     "So," she purrs as she sits back, curling up on the sofa. "...how is tall, dark and stubborn?"

     "Um... not sure exactly," Gillian hedges. "You know how time flies. A day or two ago, I guess? And I'm going to call and see if I can arrange for you to be picked up in Oxford or London. Don't worry about coming here, I can get somebody to pick you up, I'm pretty sure."
     She rises to her feet, picking up her bag and using the back of her wrist to swipe her hair out of her face, blushing a bit. "Single." That's going to raise questions. "You remember Balthazar, right?"

     "The plot thickens," Parvati coos. "Yes, I remember Balthazar. Like you could forget that face. Wasn't he going with your sister?" First things first -- gotta get the dirt. "Oh yeah? Well, then, I will start packing. When should I be ready?"

     "They ... broke up." It's so much more complicated than that! But that's what it boils down to. She is blushing a bit, walking quickly towards the exit and leaning out to peer for signs of her brother. "We got back together. I'm telling my parents tonight."
     She looks out the doors, then leans back in. "Gosh, I'm not sure. Let me call him, okay, and see what he can arrange. They might be able to pick you up tonight, though probably it'll be tomorrow sometime. Will that work for you?" Pres is pulling up, and she waves madly, then points to her cellphone. "I'll be slow for a minute," Gillian warns. "Pres is just pulling the car up. Do you want me to call him and then call you back?"

     "Wow," Parvati grins, her smile evident in her tone. "That's.... wow. Well, I like him better! He was very nice. And very attentive. I mean, he wrote you songs and poems and that thing he did at school with the signs? I nearly died! And! He is gorgeous, I hope you don't mind my saying. So! Parvati approves. Definitely a better match for you. Not that Bran was awful but I didn't really see what you had in common apart from picking on one another..."
     The sofa squeaks as she hops up. "I can be ready tonight, tomorrow, whenever. I'm going to pack now! It won't take me long. What is the weather like there? Is it temperate, arid, tropical?"
     "Oh!" she says. "Call him and call me back, let me know..."

     "He is gorgeous. And he is nice." Gillian is grinning to herself like an idiot, blushing a bit. "And you're right, you're right. I was ... trying to make things work with Bran, but they really didn't. Bran's okay with it, by the way."
     She heads through the doors; Pres is already out of the car and opening the trunk for her. "It's temperate, really. A little chilly and wet right now. Pack for that and if you need stuff, well, we'll make sure you get it. Okay! I'll call you back! Bye!"
     Gillian slides into the passenger seat. Pres cocks up an eyebrow. "What's up with the Indian Brigade?"
     "Pres!" Gillian scolds, pulling on her seatbelt. "Don't be shocking. She's willing to come visit. It'll be nice. But I have to arrange for a lift for her."
     Pres makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. "I could ask Adriano if you want."
     "Can he do that? I mean, without permission?" Gillian looks doubtful. "I was just going to call Balthazar."
     "Oh, well, by all means, don't let me stop you." Pres shrugs, pulling into the stream of traffic heading away from the airport. He doesn't look put out; still noncommittal more than anything.
     Gillian looks over at him sharply. "You're not still - mad at him, are you?"
     "Not really. I won't say he's my favorite person in the universe, but," Pres shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road, "you're the one looking to marry him, not me. I think he's a bit prone to drama, but so far he seems a little better with you than he was with Maddie. I was mostly pissed over how they hooked up, anyway, and then, well... it kind of kept escalating. I'd avoid him, he'd end up walking in on me and Gruffydd in the middle of sex. I'd talk to him at his request, he'd blow up his bedroom. Et cetera." He changes lanes, adjusting his sunglasses. "Granted, we were in his bed when he walked in on us. But I didn't know that at the time."
     Gillian blushes bright pink and lightly slaps her brother's shoulder. "You don't sound like you like him," she defends her swain. "He's very nice! You need to make more of an effort!"
     "Technically, I don't need to do anything, sister dear," Pres answers in a drawl. He spares her a glance over the rims of his sunglasses, eyes flashing silver. "Look, Gilly - that trick you do to try and rearrange people's lives and make them do what you want? It's not going to work on me anymore, and if you try it, I'm stopping the car and getting out." He softens his tone. "You're my sister and I love you. I don't hate him, and I'll even try talking to him and getting it through his head - maybe he'll be a little more ready to hear it now, or maybe after dating Maddie, he'll get my sense of humor a little better. If he blows up another bedroom on me, though, that's the last I'm talking to him." He gets into the HOV lane, settling back. "Do you want me to call Adriano or are you going to call your boyfriend? Odds are he'll just call Adriano himself, you know."
     Gillian settles back as well, folding her arms over her chest with a slight pout. "I'll call Balthazar. You're not always right, you know, little brother."
     "No, thank god for that. But I'm righter than you are these days, miss 'I don't want to marry for love'." Pres accelerates to seventy. "I'm going to get off before the turnpike so you can powder your nose and I can get a Coke. Okay?"
     "Okay." Gillian scrolls through the data on her phone until she finds her boyfriend's number. "I'm going to call now, that'll tell us what we need to know."

     On his plane of reality and, most importantly, on his bed, the Sun King lounges as evening settles into the dark part of night. Most of the palace is in bed, those whose duties do not have them out of bed, that is, and all is quiet but for the sound of the sea.
     He rests, one leg bent and the other stretched out, in crimson trousers of Egyptian cotton, fabric that crumbles easily against his far more solid form. Golden wings and golden hair are burnished, embered in the low light of his chamber. He writes quickly, amber eyes upon the marks of his own penmanship, on the lifts and lowers more than the words he writes. Balthazar looks up as his phone begins to ring, or rather in its case sing:
     She quizzes me
     I quiz her back
     She sips her drink
     and I lose track
     She twirls her beads
     I'm on my knees
     You're too good
     Lady Fifty-Two
     "Hello, lovely lady," Balthazar's voice is warm, resonant with the flavors of the East and the perfume of ancient poetry. "Did you have a nice flight?"

     "Hello to you too." Gillian grins to herself; well, to you, really, but you're not there to see it. She blushes. "I did, thank you very much. We made it here with no problems whatsoever, and Pres is now driving us to New Hampshire. How're you?"
     Pres rolls his eyes, but it's with the indulgence of a brother making fun of his sister when she's being a little mushy. He changes lanes, getting over so they can get off in time. "Tell him you lo-ove him," he falsettos, getting another smack from his sister.
     "Shut up! - Not you, Balthazar. Just my idiot brother." Gillian sticks her tongue out at him, then settle back, grinning to the phone. "I spoke to Parvati, by the way."
     Balthazar laughs quietly, setting aside the pencil and sketchpad. One arm cradles the phone and his other folds behind his head. "Tell Arian I said hello. How is the phone working? Pretty handy, isn't it. That will make it easier for you to handle the back and forth. I was lost before I got mine."
     His tone is warm. He is as attentive to you virtually as he is physically. His golden eyes look to the space in front of him. He can almost visualize the scene, the scenery, the banter.
     "Oh, yes? How is Miss Parvati?"

     "It's working beautifully, although I have to wonder if there's some sort of time delay. But I suppose it's just magic so there's no such delay." Gillian covers the mouthpiece and tells her brother tartly, "He says hello. So much for histrionics!"
     Pres rolls his eyes tolerantly and pulls into a McDonald's parking lot. "I'm going to use the head and grab a Coke. Try not to wander off, sis."
     "I won't." She turns back to the conversation du jour (or perhaps du telephony). "She's doing well. I was wondering, is it possible for somebody to pick her up and bring her over tonight? I'd love if she could stay with us for a bit, and she'd miss practically no time at all with her schoolwork - she should bring it, she'd get even further ahead that way. And, well, she is a friend." She smiles at you, unseen though you are. "You might like to know that she thoroughly approves of us getting back together, by the way."

     "I always knew I liked her," his voice is suffuse with sunlight. It has in it all the love and fondness he feels for you. "Of course, I can do it myself actually. I don't have anything going tonight. No events tomorrow apart from a meeting. I'm taking a day to enjoy the festivities and, hopefully have a relaxing day with my girl, her schedule permitting."
     Balthazar's smile is audible. "So... I can go, no worries. Let me know when she's ready or... give her my number. Do you want her to room with you? You should have a small guest bedroom in your suite. That can be arranged. Whatever you like, love."

     "Well, you made quite the impression on her! It's almost a pity your brother's too young - the unmarried one, anyway." Gillian's smile is evident even over the telephone. She climbs out of the car, heading into the ladies' restroom with an insouciant flair of her scarf. "Sure, you may as well put her in with me - your place is getting awfully crowded, isn't it? And that will make it easier for us to talk."

     Balthazar smiles, the expression audible in the warm half-laugh. "Anierin might like older women, but I suppose thirteen is a bit young to start playing matchmaker. I will get dressed and pick her up then. Could you call her and let her know I'll be there in about..." he pauses to look at his phone, "... an earth hour?"
     There is the sound of the bed shifting in the background and he is up on his feet, his barefeet sounding against the marble. "It's alright," he murmurs warmly, "... it's a big place. We can fit all of you in. And we have pull out sofas, if it gets really tight," he teases with a lilt. That strange, musical accent, both Welsh and Other.
     "I am glad your dear friend likes me. Now," he exhales, "... I can worry about your parents. I am a bit nervous, I don't mind saying."

     "You shouldn't worry too much." Gillian smiles as she heads in through the door and then to a stall. "I mean, the worst they can do is say they hate it and they won't pay for the wedding nd they disown me, right? And they might try to make Maddie go home. But they're not usually that unreasonable, and I'm pretty sure that the truth of things is going to, um, distract them, from the subtleties, like us getting married, at least a little. And mumsie's easy. You're a prince, dear."

     "I'm no different than any other groom, apart from the wings and chariot. Facing the father, and in your case, grandfather, is no less daunting. But you're right...pardon," he is quiet as he pulls on a shirt, "...distraction will be our friend. When will Adriano be bringing you back? In time for brunch you think? I want to spend some time with you without, you know, forty other girls sharpening their cutlery nearby."

     She busily finishes up her business, heading to the sink. "I'm hoping tonight, my time. That's the plan, anyway; it really hinges more on your father, you know. He's our ace in the hole. They're less likely to take our word for anything because, like it or not, we're kids to them."
     Gillian briskly gives her hands a quick wash, then trots back out to the car and climbs in while Pres gives her a patient look from over the rim of a super-sized Coke. "I think brunch sounds great. We can push everybody else away. Do you want me to call Parvati back or do you want me to give you her number, or both?"

     "I would really like that. You'll have your attendant, of course," his mouth curls a smirk, "...to make sure I'm on my best behavior over bagels but...otherwise, a little time mostly alone." His smile spreads at that.
     "My father is quite good at being calm and convincing. He is charming but also firm. Somehow, things mostly go his way and happily by all parties. He is the best ace to have. And both is probably wise. Actually, I think I might still have the flat number from before, but go ahead and give it to me, love," when he says that word for you, love, it always has a lush, warm sound, soft and layers deep in meaning and affection. It is as good as an embrace. It is as sound as a kiss.
     "And then if you don't mind calling her, I will head to the paddock to put a ride together."

     "Oh well," Gillian says philosophically. "It's funny, isn't it, to think that now they won't trust us alone together!" She laughs. It is rather funny, really. "Do you think your father could manage to be on my thesis committee?"
     She blushes, snuggling down against the leather seat. "Okay. Here's the number," she rattles it off from memory. "And I'll try to stop in and see you before bed tonight, at least, one way or the other. I'll call her and if there's any kind of problem, I'll call you back. I love you, sweetie."
     Pres rolls his eyes and mimics in falsetto, "I l-o-o-ve you, sweetie..." He gets another slap to his shoulder for his pains. "No hitting the driver. It might get us pulled over; it's bad luck, anyway."

     "I'd love that," he murmurs it as if the phone were your ear. "I love you too, angel. And, sure, if anything comes up, give me a ring. I'm going to head to the paddock and fetch Rigel. Well, and even if there isn't a problem," he grins, "...call me when you're on your way back so I know you're in transit. I miss you," he grins.
     Saying goodbye could take forever. There is a short, grinning exhale as he knows that to be true. "Have a safe trip. And ... of course, I think he'd be happy to serve on your committee. You should ask him. I think he would be an excellent and appropriate choice. Tell Arian I said hello and... good luck, sweetheart. Cara 'ch," he murmurs something florid, honeyed as his farewell...

     "I miss you..."
     There isn't much else to say, especially with her little brother making faces from the driver's side. Gillian sighs as she turns the phone off, holding it to her breast in a cloud of pink haze. She allows herself to linger in it blissfully for just five minutes - then turns to call Parvati. Duty calls!

Posted by rowan at February 18, 2010 10:45 PM